As if mesmerized Marianne moved slowly down the aisle. It took her only a moment to find the steps that led to the stage. She moved out into the center and turned to face the rows of empty seats.
She did not see the two men who had entered while she was making her way to the stage. In their dark suits they were scarcely visible to eyes dazzled by the footlights, and Marianne's imagination was in full flower, supplying an orchestra in the pit and a glittering group of royalty in the nearest stage box. It is doubtful that she would have behaved differently if she had seen the small audience of two, for this was precisely the situation she had dreamed of – the young, unknown singer, the skeptical manager… She clasped her hands, lifted her eyes to what she (mistakenly) believed to be the Royal Box, and began to sing.
"I dreamed that I dwelt in marble halls, With vassals and serfs at my side…"
The two men listened in silence. The taller and stouter of them had been in a bad mood to begin with; the frown that darkened his normally affable face deepened when he saw the interloper, and Marianne's song did not lessen its severity.
The other man's slight, foppishly dressed figure made him seem, at first glance, considerably younger than his companion. Coal-black hair and luxuriant whiskers framed a face of luminous pallor – the face of a man who seldom goes abroad under the sun. It was a singularly expressionless countenance, and it remained so; but the narrow dark eyes, so black that they appeared pupilless, narrowed still more as they examined the dainty little figure on the stage.
"Your new nightingale, Nubbles?" he asked softly.
"Never saw the gel in my life. Some stage-struck chit from the country, no doubt. Well, Wilson, there is nothing more to be said. I believe our business is concluded."
The slighter dark man looked amused.
"It never actually began, Nubbles. You gave me no opportunity to enlarge upon my proposal."
"No need," Nubbles said gruffly. "Must I be blunt? You and I are not interested in the same aspects of the theatrical profession."
"Perhaps not. Very well. If you should change your mind…"
"Not likely."
"Good day to you, then."
With a mocking inclination of his head Wilson started toward the door. Nubbles, his eyes fixed on the stage where Marianne, carried away by her own performance, postured and swayed as she sang, did not observe that Wilson paused briefly to inspect the girl once again before he went through the door.
Despite his scowl, Mr. Nubbles was not immune to the charm of the young performer. Once the other man had left, his scowl relaxed into a faint smile, though he shook his head and sighed as he listened. He let Marianne finish her song before he started down the aisle.
"Now then," he shouted, brandishing his walking stick like a club. "That will be enough of that, young lady. Come down from there, if you please."
Marianne had been so deep in her dreamworld that the gruff voice struck like a blow. She jumped.
"Oh, dear," she gasped.
"Oh, dear, indeed," said Mr. Nubbles, advancing. "Come here, miss."
Marianne tried to obey, but in her confusion she lost all sense of direction, and Mr. Nubbles had to indicate where she was to go. When they finally met in the central aisle, Mr. Nubbles was no longer smiling. His heavy eyebrows and bulky form were so forbidding that the speech Marianne had prepared in hopes of some such encounter went completely out of her head. She could only stare speechlessly up into his grim face.
Had she but known it, poor Mr. Nubbles was as uncomfortable as she. His suburban home in Islington sheltered three little daughters who adored their papa and knew him for what he was: the most sentimental and softhearted of men. In order to survive in his profession Mr. Nubbles had learned to suppress or at least conceal these attributes, for theatrical management is not an occupation for the tender-hearted. Over the years he had become more or less hardened to the necessity of discouraging eager young aspirants to the stage; at first he was at a loss to understand why this girl should affect him so strongly.
To be sure, she was uncommonly pretty. Her big, melting eyes were an unusual shade of sea-blue, and her hair had reflected the footlights like silver ribbons. Her figure, too… Yes, she was beautiful, but it was more than that. That was something about her that made him feel paternal, protective, reluctant to hurt her. A quality of innocence.
Because he had to struggle so hard to overcome his weakness, his voice was even gruffer than usual.
"Well, young lady? What is the reason for this intrusion?"
Marianne's thick honey-gold lashes veiled her eyes. Her mouth trembled. Mr. Nubbles resisted the impulse to fling himself at her feet and beg her to be his. (He had been a widower for five years.) But he was not moved to beg her to accept a leading role in his next production. Sentiment and business were two different things. He did not even ask her to sit down. That would only have prolonged a painful interview.
"You came here intending to perform, if you could," he said, seeing the roll of music that peeped out of her bag. "I suppose someone told you that you sing very nicely?"
"Yes, sir."
"You do. Very nicely. But a professional singer, my dear, must have more than a nice voice."
"Oh!" Marianne gasped as if she had been doused in cold water. Mr. Nubbles hurried on with his speech. If she started to cry he didn't know what he might do.
"My dear young lady, do you have any idea how many girls aspire to a career on the stage? Do you know how few succeed? You haven't even come to the right theater. It is true that we do sometimes produce musical plays, but just now we are dedicated to the classical drama. And," he added hastily, as Marianne's eyes lit up, "don't, I beg, offer to give me Juliet's balcony speech or 'The quality of mercy is not strained.' And don't offer to serve as Miss Terry's understudy. I assure you, it is a harsh, demanding profession, not one I would like to see one of my daughters attempt. Do your friends know you came here today?"
Marianne stared at him in shocked surprise. Still reeling mentally from the abrupt destruction of her lovely daydream, this last question added insult to injury. She drew herself up to her full height (a good inch over five feet).
"That, sir, is not your concern," she said. "Good day."
Mr. Nubbles might have gone after her. But the actors were arriving; someone asked him a question that had to be dealt with immediately. When he turned again, the slight little figure in black had disappeared. She took with her Mr. Nubbles' peace of mind. He was in a foul mood during the rehearsal and the cast of Titus Andronicus called him hard names behind his back.
By the time Marianne reached the door her eyes were flooded with tears. She could scarcely see where she was going. Blindly she pushed through the doors into the lobby. She was hurrying toward the exit when a hand caught her arm.
"I beg your pardon," said a smooth, soft voice. "I called to see Mr. Nubbles on a matter of business, and I could not help overhearing… everything. My name is Wilson. I am the owner and proprietor of the Alhambra Supper Club; and I am prepared to offer you employment, starting tonight."
CHAPTER THREE
Marianne decided that some good angel must be watching over her. She was not so much impressed at the offer of a singing job, for she had expected that; coming as it did after such a crushing disappointment only made the triumph sweeter. However, only a series of fortunate accidents made it possible for her to fulfill the engagement without a long, boring argument with Mrs. Shortbody. A summons from an old friend, taken suddenly ill, had prevented the landlady from accompanying Marianne that morning, and the emergency kept her from home that same night. (Marianne's definition of "fortunate" was as egocentric as that of most eighteen-year-olds.)